Damia Read online

  Some four hours into Rowan’s respite, Tanya contacted him.

  Afra, the Rowan didn’t by any chance remove Damia from daycare, did she?

  No, Tanya. Why? Afra felt the first spurt of panic.

  Damia isn’t anywhere in the creche. She was asleep in her cot when I last looked.

  Did you ask Jeran and Cera?

  Oh, them! Tanya’s tone was disgusted. They told me she went out waving her wand.

  Hold it a moment, folks, and Afra spoke to everyone in the Tower, missing person problem.

  Damia? Brian asked and groaned. Why did kindly notions dissolve into disasters? Can’t you spot her, Afra?

  If you’ll give me the quiet to do so. Afra had already begun to cast his mind about. He could usually “hear” her infantile stream of consciousness anywhere in the Rowan’s house. Whether or not he could trace her wherever she had got to in the Compound was another matter. He’d better or the Rowan would skin him for garters. Afra started at the daycare rooms, casting about the main compound.

  Then Brian and Joe Toglia came stamping up the stairs to the Tower and began flicking on the screens to interior monitors, examining one area after another of the four domes that comprised the Station. The screens showed no small figure trundling about.

  “How long’s she been walking?” Brian asked Afra.

  “Long enough to be pretty good at it.”

  Cursing under his breath, Brian progammed a decco of the tunnel links. There were so many places that could shelter a small body from the optical sensors.

  “She’s not tall enough to reach the doorplates, is she?” asked Joe, thumbing through views of the basement levels of the supply section.

  “Wait a minute!” And, with sudden inspiration, Afra leaned across the console and accessed the remote in his own quarters. And there Damia was, toddling about his living room after Ringle and two other Coonies, trying to bean them with the dowel-wand in her hand. “And that’s how she activated the doors . . . waving her wand!”

  Afra ’ported into the room, sweeping the stray child into his arms.

  “Af’a! Af’a!” she squealed with delight, patting his face with her free hand and waving her “wand” furiously with the other. He carefully unwrapped her fingers from the dowel before she stuck it in his eye.

  “Damia shouldn’t leave Tanya!” he said, knowing how futile scolding this imp could be. Merrily she grinned up at him, her huge blue eyes rounder than ever with her excitement.

  “Af’a! Af’a?” She began to squirm free, “Ingul, Ingul,” and she twisted her head to find Ringle, arching her back to get free.

  “No Ringle now, Damia. I’m taking you back to Tanya.”

  “Tan’a? Tan’a.” That name emerged as a sort of guttural grunt and the twisting became more violent. “No, Tan’a. Ingul. Wan Ingul.”

  “Not now, baby!” Bearing in mind the Rowan’s dislike of exposing her children to Talented actions, he secured her writhing form in his arms and walked her back to the creche where an anxious Tanya waited at the door.

  “Ingul, Ingul,” Damia was saying over his shoulder, suddenly ceasing to fidget. “Ingul. Goo Ingul.”

  Turning his head, Afra saw Ringle dutifully following him.

  “How could she have got out, Afra?” Tanya said in a near wail as she reached out to relieve Afra of his burden.

  “She had a wand, a dowel stick with a star on the end of it,” Afra told her.

  “And used that to activate the doorplates?” Tanya was amazed. “The little minx. Well, I’ll get Forrie to touch-code them tomorrow. She won’t try that one on me again. Where’s the Rowan?” Tanya anxiously looked across the compound. Afra could well imagine how she had dreaded confronting an irate mother, especially a Prime, whose child she had just misplaced. Damia tried to launch herself head down out of Tanya’s arms, both arms reaching for Ringle who had entered the creche. Deftly Tanya righted the child, placed her on her feet so that she could reach Ringle who scampered off, Damia following as fast as she could churn her short legs.

  “Rowan arrived this morning looking like hell warmed over,” Afra began.

  “She did look exhausted when she dropped the children off,” Tanya remarked, and made a rueful noise with her lips.

  “So we sent her back home for some rest.” Afra did not mention his abortive mention of acquiring a pukha for Damia, though these “comfort toys” could be programmed for any number of responses to soothe a fretful child. “Tanya, how do you get Damia to take her naps?”

  The girl regarded him with surprise. Not for the first time Afra thought that she was little more than a child herself, for all he knew she was twenty-nine. She was a daintily made girl, all brown, brown eyes, brown hair, light brown skin, with small hands and feet. If Gollee Gren hadn’t expressed an interest in her, Afra would have been tempted to try his luck.

  “Well,” and Tanya pointed to the rocking chair just visible in the nap alcove, “if she won’t settle, I rock her and sing a lullaby. She goes right to sleep for me.” She caught her lip with her teeth, looking sheepish, and fluttering one hand in dismay. Afra could “hear” her distress at seeming to criticize her Prime.

  “Just a lullaby?”

  “Just a lullaby,” she replied firmly. “You know how the Rowan feels about mental coercion. Actually, any song will do the trick. I use different ones so I don’t get bored.”

  “I know how the Rowan feels, but what she doesn’t know, won’t hurt,” Afra said, having come to a decision. The Tower demanded some adjustment to her directive. He called Ringle to him. “And it will sure help all of us.”

  Brown eyes widening, Tanya’s jaw dropped in consternation. “Afra, I don’t think we should.”

  “We both know that a mild therapeutic post-hypnotic suggestion doesn’t in the least inhibit the developing mind of the Talented child,” Afra said as he reached down to stroke the obedient Ringle.

  Trotting up behind him came a giggling Damia, dark curls bouncing on her shoulders. So Afra captured his victim and asked Tanya to teach him the tune and the words. By the time he had learned them and implanted the command in Damia’s mind, she had yawned herself to sleep in his arms.

  “I’ll send Forrie to change the door plates,” Afra said, and went whistling back to the Tower, crisis over. At least, he amended privately, this one.

  When a much refreshed Rowan returned to the Tower, everyone was very careful not to think of the morning’s brief crisis. And Afra waited for an opportune moment to suggest a sure-fire remedy for Damia’s nocturnal restlessness.

  Brian listened, his mouth slightly ajar, as Afra recounted a totally fictional account of how his sister, Goswina, had dealt with his sleepless nephew.

  “A rocking chair?” the Rowan asked in surprise.

  “Rocking chair,” Afra said, and implanted the appropriate image in his mind for her to see. Then set it moving, and placed a Rowan and a Damia in it. “Between the motion of the chair, the repetitive rhythm in mother’s reassuring voice, my nephew was soon fast asleep.”

  “I’m willing to try anything. But I don’t know any lullabys. Jeran and Cera never needed any.”

  “I know a good one,” Brian said. “My mother used to say how often she had to rock me when I was teething.” In a rather strong baritone voice, he launched into a rendition of an ancient folk tune about what a daddy would buy his li’l baby if it would hush.

  Afra countered with Tanya’s “Rock-a-bye baby.” “That one was a sure-fire sleep-inspirer.”

  What’s going on in the Tower? asked Jeff Raven. It is working hours.

  Sorry, boss, Afra said with absolutely no remorse.

  Ready, my lovely? Jeff asked the Rowan. We have some paying customers.

  And, instantly and of one mind, Callisto Tower turned into a smooth functioning facility.

  * * *

  “Wanna play,” Damia told her two siblings. They were all in their home playroom while their mother was in the kitchen, preparing lunch. Jeran and
Cera were building a complex structure of blocks. Damia had been in a corner crooning to herself as she trotted her herd of ponies about an obstacle course and in and out of their stable. The intense silence of her siblings’ concentration attracted her.

  “G’way,” Jeran told her.

  “Y’g’way,” Cera added, waving her sister off.

  “Wanna play,” Damia repeated. Then changed her tactics. “Can’t I play with you?”

  Jeran blinked at her, recognizing grown-up syntax, for their parents never used baby talk. “No, Damia,” for he could speak just as good grownup as she could, “Cera and I are playing together.” He waved toward her corner. “You play with your horses.”

  “Ponies,” Damia corrected him absently in a vague hope of provoking further attention from her brother. But Cera nudged him, indicating a block in her hand and, in their private garble, requesting his opinion on its placement.

  Recognizing the futility of enticing them from their game, Damia turned away. She looked at the corner where her toys were strewn. She thought of calling Rascal who always came to her, or the Coonies, but she’d already spent half her morning with them.

  “Bored! I’m so bored!” She looked about her. The baby gate blocked her exit from the playroom. But that was the way out, to more exciting play. She walked over to it, examining it carefully. She had watched her mother putting it up many times now and observation had shown her how it worked. The gate was braced in place by a simple lever that locked down. A sharp jerk up would release the brace and the door could be pulled aside or knocked over. Normally Damia could do nothing with the information she had acquired because the lever was on the outside which she could not reach. Today, however, her mother had inadvertently reversed the gate and the lever was inside.

  Tentatively, more from curiosity than plan, Damia tapped the lever. It jerked up and the baby gate fell softly onto the carpet in the hallway.

  Jeran heard the noise and looked around at her. “Damia ba’guh,” Cera added, scowling. “Dam ba!”

  Against this censure, Damia could not bring herself to explain that she’d only touched it: getting it to drop out of the door was an accident. However, the gate was down, Jeran and Cera wouldn’t play with her, but Afra would. He always did. She would find Afra.

  Safety was a paramount consideration on Callisto Station and reigned over security. Consequently all doors were the automatic sliding type, with ultrasound sensors. Early in Jeran’s babyhood, the Rowan had ordered the sensors raised so that the boy could not leave the house. Jeran never wanted to, nor did Cera. As the Rowan hadn’t heard about Damia’s adventure with her “wand,” it hadn’t occurred to her to alter the sensors to touch-control plates. All Damia had to do was find something long enough for her to break the circuit.

  A long-stemmed flower from the dry arrangement on the hall table, acquired by climbing up on a chair and removing a suitable one from the vase, made a good substitute for her wand. The door slid politely out of her way.

  Every dome had a hallway where the personnel tubes connected and where elevators, freight and human, expelled their cargo. Below ground were the powerplants, hydroponics garden, life support, recycling machinery, gravity generators—all the equipment required to keep Callisto Station operating. Also in the basement were the long-term survival units awaiting a catastrophic disaster. The personnel tubes were plasglas-covered, allowing personnel access between the four lesser domes. Along the tubes were personal safety capsules to guard against the unlikely event of a pressure breach.

  Damia had traveled all the tubes but always in the company of adults. Now she spent many moments carefully considering each tube. With a determined look plastered over her misgivings, she started off down her chosen tube.

  She stopped several times to look back yearningly toward her home but always she trudged onward. She had chosen correctly: the tube opened up onto the large park that was the “doorstep” for Callisto Quarters. To her right was the large gymnasium with its indoor pool, to her left the two-storied Married Quarters and straight on, through the park with its dwarf trees, was the three-leveled Bachelor Quarters. As most of the residents were indoors, eating or involved in other chores while Jupiter occluded Callisto, no one happened to notice her progress.

  “Afra!” she cried in cheerful anticipation, toddling as fast as her slender legs could carry her.

  However, she had left her long-stemmed flower behind her and had nothing close to hand to trip the sensor. She grew quite frustrated, poking at the undemonstrative door, jumping up and down, hand above her head, trying to reach the plate.

  Afra! Afra? she said, unaware that, in her anxiousness to contact him, she used an ability that she ought not to have discovered so prematurely. She had also launched her mental call into his quarters, not realizing that Afra was lunching with Brian, nor that she’d have needed more “volume” to reach him. However, she did startle Ringle awake.

  With an understanding chitter of acknowledgment, the Coonie started toward the door. As the Coonies all needed access to the park for their toilet, Maintenance had equipped them with ultrasound collars. Ringle walked up to the door, paced by it, and it opened.

  “Afra!” Damia entered jubilant and halted her headlong progress into the room when only Ringle greeted her. “Afra? Afra, play with me!” She toddled off to find her playmate, not noticing that the door silently closed behind her, having been open long enough for any animal to exit. “Where is Afra?” she asked Ringle, who had followed her in her perambulation.

  Ringle chittered, turning away from her and pacing toward the kitchen. He was always hungry and Damia had given him sufficient tidbits on previous visits here to allow him to hope for more.

  * * *

  Emergency! the Rowan ’pathed on the widest band possible. She stood on her front steps, the baby gate dangling from one hand. Damia’s got out. I don’t know where she’s got to. I’ve checked every remote screen and there’s no sign of her.

  How long’s she been gone? Afra was the first to ask.

  How do I know? the Rowan exclaimed, half-despairing, half-angry. I was getting lunch. She’d been safely in the playroom with Jeran and Cera who, in their fashion, and that was added in a terse tone, have no idea where their sister went. Jeran said she knocked the gate down.

  Remembering all too well Damia’s tendency to seek him out, Afra replied, If you haven’t seen her on the remotes, then I’ve a good idea where she might be.

  Relieve my mind? the Rowan asked cryptically.

  Afra had no trouble seeing her tapping her foot with impatience.

  My place.

  How in the world would she get there?

  Walked, was Afra’s laconic answer.

  I’ll meet you there. And the Rowan’s tone was severe.

  Afra ’ported himself from Brian’s dining area to his living room and sure enough, Damia was busy feeding Ringle leftovers from his refrigerator. She was convulsed with the giggles because Ringle was “washing” each handful before he popped it into his mouth.

  The Rowan arrived only a moment later, anger and relief warring for dominance. But Damia’s laughter was infectious and, as Afra saw the Rowan’s expression soften, he allowed himself to grin.

  Suddenly aware of observation, Damia swiveled about.

  “Afra!” Abandoning Ringle, she raced to him, only then aware of her mother. She teetered to a stop, her expression one of total innocence. “The gate fell over, Mommy. Honest it did. They never play with me and I was bored! Afra always plays with me.” Grabbing his hand, Damia tilted her head up. “Don’t you, Afra?”

  He squatted down to her level. “I do when it is the time to play, Damia. But you must wait for me to come. Do you understand? You mustn’t come looking.”

  She nodded solemnly, one hand bringing her comfort finger to her mouth.

  The Rowan hunkered down, too, her eyes on a level with her fractious daughter. “You know you’re not supposed to wander around the Station, Damia. Don’t
you?”

  Damia shook her head. “I wanted to play. Jeran and Cera won’t play with me. Ever.” She tried to squeeze a tear out of her eyes.

  “How’d you get in?” Afra asked, knowing that Damia was trying the wrong tactics on her mother.

  “Ringle let me in!” Damia pointed to the Coonie, who was now finishing his impromptu meal.

  Afra and Rowan exchanged surprised looks.

  “Ringle heard me,” Damia went on, “he let me in.”

  “How could he do that?” Rowan asked Afra, then looked accusingly at her daughter. “You must tell the truth, Damia.”

  “I tell the truth,” and Damia’s face began to contort as a prelude to tears over such adult intransigence.

  “If Ringle heard her, he’d come to the door,” Afra said quickly, to forestall Damia’s tearful reaction. “His collar would open the door. It’ll close automatically.”

  The Rowan let out a long, exasperated sigh and gathered her daughter in her arms. “All right, Damia. Now don’t cry. But you mustn’t run about the Compound on your own. Promise, you won’t leave the house without someone with you?”

  Clinging to her mother in an excess of contrition, Damia vigorously nodded her head.

  “Now, your lunch is ready, young lady,” the Rowan said, hoping that she had made her point without frightening her wayward child.

  “Ringle’s had his, and I’ll go back to mine,” Afra said, ushering the two out of his apartment. “And I’ll get a catflap in my door. Damia’s too big to crawl through one of those.”

  There was relative peace for a few weeks. Afra was not the only one nervously anticipating the next Damianism. As it happened, there was a great deal of traffic in that morning, heavy stuff that needed careful handling. Tanya’s frantic cry for help was therefore not welcome to anyone in the Tower.

  I can’t stop Damia, Afra, the girl cried. And I know the Rowan’s terribly busy, but I’m afraid Damia will hurt someone.

  Afra signaled for Joe Toglia to take over as he spun his chair over to the nearest free monitor and called up the remote in the daycare center. He could see Tanya, cowering by the comunit, as the other children cringed under the small-scale furniture. Jeran and Cera serenely played some intricate game while a stream of toy bits and parts, and occasionally something heavier, was rained at them by an enraged Damia who was blubbering in fury.